Jack Daniels Six Pack (86 page)

Once home, I unplugged my phone, fended off a cat attack, took a long shower, slapped on some burn cream, tugged one of Latham’s old T-shirts over my head, and crawled into bed.

I was exhausted, but unable to relax. Sleep mocked my attempts, keeping me awake with thoughts of Caleb’s basement, of my mother, whom I hadn’t visited in a few days, of Herb, of Harry’s wedding, which I had to get ready for in just a few hours, of Holly, who was still being questioned as far as I knew, and still hadn’t bought a wedding dress.

I managed about ten winks out of a possible forty, and at nine a.m. I got up to face the day. It began with a call to Herb, who was being prepped for his bypass surgery.

“I saw it on the news this morning. You’re catching psychos without me. I’m obsolete.”

“Sorry, Herb. Next time I’ll wait until you’re feeling better before I do my job.”

“I appreciate it.”

“How was my sound bite? Did I look okay?”

“Thin. You looked too thin. Have you been eating okay?”

Bless that man.

“Thanks, Herb. Have yourself a good operation. Don’t give the doctor any trouble.”

“I’ve got it easy, compared to you. Aren’t you standing up at that idiot McGlade’s wedding today?”

“Yeah. Lucky me.”

“Can you swing by the hospital and pick up the gift I made for him? I haven’t wrapped it yet. It’s still in the bedpan.”

I laughed, then realized I hadn’t gotten McGlade a gift myself. The ceremony was at noon, at the Busse Woods forest preserve in the suburb of Elk Grove. Maybe I had time to pick up something on the way.

I bid good-bye to Herb, rushed through a shower, and spent all the time I saved on the shower staring dumbly at my closet, wondering what the hell to wear. A formal gown? Not to a forest preserve. Slacks and a blouse? Not dressy enough. I didn’t own a clown outfit, so that was out, and finally decided on a Bob Mackie brocade suit, pink, with a white blouse. The skirt was knee length, the jacket had shoulder pads and a rounded collar, and I never wore it to work because it was, well, pink.

I matched it with a strappy pair of DKNY two-inch heels with an open toe, but had no nylons without runs in them. I used some scissors to get a good leg from two separate pairs, and held them on with a garter belt that Latham had bought me during the inevitable “naughty underwear” phase of our relationship. I didn’t expect to have as much fun wearing it this time.

I kept the makeup fast and light, refreshed the cat’s food and water, and rushed out the door, almost running into my weirdo neighbor, Lucy Walnut from the Sanitation Department. She was wearing the same crusty uniform I’d seen her in the last few times. Perhaps she slept in it.

Before I had a chance to ask why she was standing in front of my apartment, she bent down and picked up a flower arrangement that had been resting between her feet.

“This is for you.”

Taking flowers from creepy ex-cons set off all kinds of warning bells. Walnut must have sensed it, because she shook her head.

“It’s not from me. Got delivered to your place last night. You weren’t home, the florist guy asked me to hold it till you got back.”

I took the flowers, a vase full of roses, carnations, violets, mums, and baby’s breath.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Whatever.”

She trudged back to her apartment, and I brought the arrangement inside.

It had a small card, and the envelope had been torn open. Walnut? I could knock on her door and yell “J’accuse!” but didn’t see the point. Instead, I took it out and read the message.

I still love you too. Let’s talk. Latham.

I’ll admit to a very unfeminine
whoop,
and maybe a few fist pumps in the air. I won’t admit to grabbing Mr. Friskers and dancing around the kitchen with him, giving him kisses on his nose. I won’t ever admit to that.

I immediately called Latham, and got his answering machine. I thanked him for the flowers, and invited him to come over tonight. My cell was almost out of juice, so I turned the power off. I’d recharge it in my car.

Energized for the first time in weeks, I practically ran to my Nova and pointed it northwest, taking the Kennedy expressway to Route 53, and exiting on Higgins Road at the giant mega-mall known as Woodfield. With almost 300 stores, I was bound to find one that had a wedding gift.

Or so I thought.

If I’d been buying just for Harry, I would have gone to a toy store and bought action figures, or some kind of toy that expelled slime. If I’d been buying for only Holly, I could have gotten some sort of designer accessory. But what would be appropriate for them as a couple?

I considered bedding. First silk sheets, then rubber sheets. Since I didn’t know their bed size, I passed.

Then I looked at towels, televisions, easy chairs, the complete
Planet of the Apes
series on DVD, a lamp shaped like an ostrich, his and hers golf clubs, and a large stone that you could plug into the wall and watch water trickle over the edge, which was guaranteed to relax you, though it almost put me into shock when I saw how much it cost.

I left Woodfield at a quarter to twelve and went off in search of the universal gift, booze. Luckily there was a liquor store nearby, and I blew two bills on a bottle of bubbly and managed to make it to the forest preserve with a full minute to spare.

Busse Woods occupied a good portion—over ten square miles—of Elk Grove, which did indeed have real live elk running around in it. I followed the crude map Harry had scribbled on a beverage napkin at Mon Ami Gabi a few days earlier, taking the second entrance off Higgins. It was like being transported into another world.

Chicago had many parks, and those parks had trees, but even the densest concentration of foliage still felt like it was in the middle of a city. After turning down the twisty, thin road, the woods swallowed my car up. The forest canopy was so thick in certain parts, I couldn’t see the sky. I felt like I’d driven into the movie
Deliverance.

I took the road into the thicket for nearly a mile, finally ending up at a tiny clearing with a small eight-space parking lot, two weather-beaten picnic tables, and a rusty garbage barrel. Two other cars were already there, Harry’s familiar ’67 Mustang and a Volkswagen Jetta. Standing beside one of the tables were three men.

I parked next to the Jetta, checked my makeup, forced on a fake smile, and went to meet the boys.

Phin wore the same charcoal suit as the other day, but had switched the blue shirt for dark gray. His black cowboy boots were polished, and this was the first time I’d ever seen Phin in a tie. He looked good. Since Phin didn’t own a car, especially not a Jetta, I assumed he took a cab here.

The man next to him—the judge or reverend or justice of the peace or ship’s captain or whoever McGlade had conned into overseeing this happy union—was a short man in his sixties sporting a white beard and a corduroy blazer with patches on the elbows. Hadn’t seen those in a while.

And Harry . . . Harry had crammed himself into a tuxedo, one of those new styles that had a large black button instead of a bow tie. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was a mess, and his eyes were so bloodshot, it looked like he’d poured ketchup in them.

“Hey, Jackie.” McGlade gave me a half-assed wave.

“Holly’s not here yet?”

He shook his head. “She’s running late. Didn’t get out of the police station until this morning, then ran out to find a dress. Heard you had some night last night.”

“You too. How was your bachelor party?”

He winced. “Those little people sure can drink.”

Phin raised an eyebrow. “Little people?”

“Harry spent some quality time with a midget stripper,” I explained.

McGlade held up four fingers. “Four of them. Every single Willy Wonka fantasy I’ve ever had came true last night.”

Phin raised his eyebrow even higher. “You had sex with a midget stripper?” Harry again held up four fingers. “Four of them.”

“How was it?”

“It was short.”

Both Phin and Harry began to laugh.

The guy in the antique suit walked over and held out his hand.

“Reverend Antwerp Skeezix, pleased to meet you.”

I shook his hand. “Antwerp Skeezix?”

“That’s my Martian name.”

Harry whispered in my ear. “I had a little trouble getting someone to marry us on such short notice, and I found him on the Internet.”

“I’m an ordained Martianology minister,” said Antwerp Skeezix. “Harry and Holly are going to be married in the Church of Martianism. Blorg willing.”

“Is this legal?” I asked Harry.

He shrugged.

Phin played it straight. “I bet the honeymoon cost a fortune.”

“One does not need a rocket ship to visit Mars,” said Reverend Antwerp Skeezix. “Mars is a state of mental awareness, and can be reached with a carefully controlled combination of psychotropic drugs.”

“I bet,” I said.

“Go stand over there, Spaceboy.” McGlade pointed to the garbage can. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

“Blorg is good.” The reverend waddled off.

Phin tapped Harry on the chest. “Are you sure Holly will go for that? Being married by Timothy Leary’s stupid cousin?”

“I have no idea. I don’t even know if she’ll show up. I just want something to make my head quit pounding.”

“I’ve got a gun in the car,” I suggested.

Our witty banter was interrupted by the approach of a taxi. Holly got out of the back, wearing a simple white sleeveless cocktail dress—silk, above the knee, and low cut. White pumps. Her hair up and her makeup perfect. She looked stunning.

The relief on Harry’s face was almost comical. He practically ran to meet her, and after some hugging and kissing they joined us, McGlade’s smile big enough for three people.

“Okay, let’s get this party started. Hey! E.T.! Get your ass over there by those trees.”

Antwerp obediently trotted to where McGlade was pointing. Holly gave me a big hug, and then Phin a big hug. After the hugfest ended, I sidled up to her and we walked to the marriage spot Harry had picked out, between two giant pine trees.

“Everything go okay?” I nudged Holly.

“No charges pressed yet. They took my gun, though. Any chance I’ll get it back? That’s a pricey piece of hardware.”

“If you fill out all the release papers correctly, you should get it back a little after Y3K.”

“Shit. If I’d known that, I would have beat him to death with my bra.”

Harry played dictator, telling us where and how to stand, putting me at his side and Phin at Holly’s side.

“So what do you think, babe?”

“It’s beautiful, Harry. Just perfect. And you look so handsome. Isn’t he handsome, Jack?”

Actually, he looked like Danny DeVito’s interpretation of the Penguin in that Batman movie.

“Handsome,” I said.

Reverend Antwerp Skeezix cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

Harry nodded, and Antwerp undid his pants. McGlade grabbed his wrists.

“Hold on there, Starman. We decided to keep our clothes on.”

Antwerp frowned. “No nudity?”

“No nudity.”

The reverend cast a long, sad look at Holly, then zipped up.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, under the eyes of Blorg the Almighty the Second, son of Blorg the Almighty the First, son of Merv the Invincible, to bear witness to the joining of two lives.”

I watched Holly’s face. It stayed serious, even at the mention of the Invincible Merv.

“Do you, Holly Frakes, take Harrison Harold McGlade, to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?”

“I do.”

And damned if she didn’t look happy saying it.

“Do you, Harrison McGlade, take Holly Frakes, to be your lawfully wedded wife, for richer or for—”

“I do,” McGlade interrupted.

“Do you have the rings?”

Harry shook his head. “No rings. Tonight we’re both going out and getting our nipples pierced.”

Reverend Antwerp stared at Holly’s chest and was momentarily at a loss for words, until McGlade kicked him.

“Okay then, by the powers invested in me, by the state of Illinois, and by the planet Mars, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

McGlade and Holly kissed. Phin and I exchanged a glance like, “That was weird,” and then there was more hugging, including a hug from Reverend Antwerp that a less liberated woman would call a grope.

Then we gathered around one of the rotten picnic tables, Phin and I signed some witness papers, and McGlade gave Antwerp fifty bucks and told him to take off.

“I was hoping for a glass of champagne,” the reverend said.

“Go hope for it somewhere else.”

Antwerp, looking confused, walked back to his car.

“Hurry!” McGlade said. “There’s a wascally wabbit stowing away on your spaceship!”

“Oh, dear!” Antwerp hurried.

Holly dug into Harry’s car, coming out with a large cooler. She set it on the lawn and removed two bottles of champagne, an open carton of orange juice, some plastic cups, and two packages of bologna.

“Harry, this is all you packed for lunch?”

“Ah, shit. I forgot the raspberry Zingers. Sorry, babe. Maybe we can grab a bite somewhere local. In fact, I think I’ve got a take-out menu.”

Harry pulled something out of his pocket. He handed it to Holly, and she squealed.

“Paris! Harry, we’re going to Paris!”

“Plane leaves tonight, cupcake. Which will give us plenty of time to get loaded beforehand. Mix the mimosas, Phin! I’ll pass out the bologna.”

Phin opened the champagne and poured.

The first toast was to Harry and Holly, may they live happily ever after.

The second toast was to Holly, may she stay out of prison.

The third toast was to Phin, whom Harry called his new best friend.

When McGlade raised his glass the fourth time, I was in his sights.

“To the best cop I’ve ever met, a woman who is twice the man I’ll ever be. Jack Daniels.”

The alcohol must have hit him pretty quick, because he was slurring. It must have hit me as well, because McGlade’s words touched me, and when I reached over to pat his shoulder, everything got blurry.